


Legs Up To Her Waist (The French Have a Phrase for It Remix)

by Ghostcat



Category: New Girl, Veronica Mars - Fandom
Genre: Bartender - Freeform, Crossover, Detectives, Gen, Recognition, Remix, noir, remix madness 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-06 22:44:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4239447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostcat/pseuds/Ghostcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She was small. Leggy. Wearing a too-short belted raincoat, a too-wide smile, and shiny little wicked eyes. Blue, like Curaçao. A toothpick between her teeth. </p><p>“I can hear you, you know. Are you actually the bartender or is this,” she looked around slowly, “some UCLA film grad’s idea of a Chandleresque hell?”</p><p>Veronica Mars meets Nick Miller at Clyde's and discovers that they have a mutual acquaintance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Legs Up To Her Waist (The French Have a Phrase for It Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [touchedglitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchedglitter/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Legs Up to Her Waist](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2307503) by [touchedglitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchedglitter/pseuds/touchedglitter). 
  * In response to a prompt by [touchedglitter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/touchedglitter/pseuds/touchedglitter) in the [remixmadness2015](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/remixmadness2015) collection. 



> Thank you to my wonderful beta, blithers, for the last second read. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone.

It was a reasonably warm night on an unseasonably cold day, the kind of night that brought in all the neighborhood drunks early, eager for the company of one another, to titter like birds or old ladies, the kind of day he dreaded because once the bonhomie blurred and faded, usually by the fifth or six Mai Tai, all that was left was regret and the faint smell of peanut dust.

“So tell me, do you usually narrate or is that something special just for me?”

She was small. Leggy. Wearing a too-short belted raincoat, a too-wide smile, and shiny little wicked eyes. Blue, like Curaçao. A toothpick between her teeth.

“I can hear you, you know. Are you actually the bartender or is this,” she looked around slowly, “some UCLA film grad’s idea of a Chandleresque hell?”

“Sorry, doll. A man has to entertain himself somehow. What can I do you for?”

The blonde, because of course she was blonde, rolled those blue eyes in a way that probably worked for most men. And Nick Miller was most men, never’d been ashamed to admit it. He coughed, then scowled, wiping the bar like Mozart because he had nothing else to show for himself ‘cept for a sparsely attended trivia night and one spectacular collection of hotel soaps. When the next song switched over, _Heartbreak Hotel_ by Elvis Presley, he glanced up to see if Little Miss Trouble had vanished. Nope, still there. She tilted her head coquettishly, the toothpick now halved, sharp between her knuckles.

The dame made him nervous. She was probably a cop. Cops made him nervous. The only one that didn’t was Winnie but Nick had seen him smoke weed from a bong shaped like Cthulu so there was that.

He hoped she wouldn’t see the sweat stain blooming on his back like wings.

“Beer. You seem like the kind of guy who knows 'em. Anything you can recommend?”

Her legs were long for a short gal. She crossed them like she was wielding a shiny new switchblade. Part dancer, part weapon.

“Highland Park Pale Ale,” Nick answered, fast, in a rushed mumble.

“You answered awfully quick.”

“I know my beers and I know my patrons.”

“Oh, you do now?” She smiled but there was something like a small fire in her eyes.

“Sure. You’re from out of town. Your hair’s too neat and this bar is a dump. You don’t drink much but when you do, you like to go local. Because artisanal something or other. So Brooklyn, maybe? Seems likely. You’re not here to pick anyone up, you wouldn’t be talking to me if you were. Which means you want information.”

“I think I liked you better when you were narrating.”

“You’re not the first person to say that. I’m just a great bartender, sweetheart. Nothing special.”

Nick pulled back the tap and poured her a pint, holding the iced glass with the practiced tilt of a trained professional. He placed it in front of her, making a careful show of centering it on the coaster.

“If ya don’t like it, it’s on the house.”

Blondie wasn’t answering but she was staring. Staring slack-jawed and soft just past his shoulder at the Wall of Dummies. For a second, she was another girl, from another time. Young and hopeful, waiting for a dance.

“That man. The one in the uniform?” Her voice, a sticky-sweet daydream.

Nick swivelled around, following her eyeline to a blurry shot of the handsomest uniformed man he had the pleasure of knowing, sandwiched between himself and Schmidty and laughing hard.

“Oh, the Admiral? He’s a friend, a barfriend. Not a patron, not a customer, nothing like that. A barfriend.” Nick licked his lips. “He smells so great. Like herbs. Not medicinal. Manly, like a green field full of herbs. All kinds of 'em. And heather.”

She grinned, her teeth sharp.

“He’s not an admiral.”

“Who cares? He’s a goddamned American hero. Listen, sister, when that man walks through that door, eagles scream in ecstasy.” He lowered his voice. “Once, I paid him to put me in a headlock. Best four seconds of my life.”

“Four seconds?”

“I passed out. He’s trained to kill. Biceps like,” he stretched out his hands like bear claws but they couldn’t match the awesome majesty of the Admiral’s Popeye-worthy arms.

Her eyebrows rose to meet her hairline. She shook herself out, like a tiny sexy dog that wore outfits.

“When do you expect him back?” she asked, all business. Looking as if she was doing a million things at once, as efficiently as possible, all while sitting in her chair doing nothing at all. Something about the shoulders and her manner— crisp.

Nick turned back to the photo, straightening it. “Not for another 23 days but who’s counting? Not me. He’s the man I want to apprehend me after a nationwide manhunt.”

“What did you do to get yourself on the lam?”

He smiled ruefully. “I dreamed big.”

Nick was wrong. She wasn’t dangerous, she was gorgeous, because she laughed then, and she was The Dream. The real one, not the kind they tell you about. Funny, fast, terrifying, and with that laugh that she was blessing him with, true blue.

She brought her finger up to her lips. “I feel like I should be wary of you, but you seem alright, Nick Miller.”

“How do you know my name?”

“It’s behind you, on that big plaque that says “King of the Dummies” with your photo next to it.”

Nick slumped forward, shrugging. “That’s me. How’s your beer treating ya?”

“Like a million locally brewed bucks.”

He took a fresh bowl and poured some peanuts on it and placed it in front of her. “What do you want with the Admiral anyway?”

The bird got cagey, taking a bigger gulp of her beer than she’d intended. She looked around the bar, her gaze settling on a pair of business-attired idiots thumb wrestling. “He’s… an old friend. I haven't seen him in years.”

Nick wanted to press her for information but something stopped him. Her unsettled gaze, the way she bit her lip, the small sigh— all the telltale signs of unfinished romantic business. He poured himself a shot of whiskey and clinked it with hers. She jumped a little, as if startled, but nodded back at him, something like understanding on that quiet bombshell face.

The Blonde finished the rest of her drink, opened her wallet and took out a twenty. Putting it firmly on the counter the way people do when they’re resigned to themselves. He slid it back to her.

“On the house. A friend of The Admiral’s is a friend of mine.”

“How do you know I’m still his friend?”

“Aren’t ya?”

They stared at one another. He blinked first because he’s _him_ and he’s soft like French cheese.

She slid a business card across the polished wood, a battleship on varnished waters. Tapped a nail on it. Veronica Mars. Mars Investigations. The all-seeing Eye of Providence icon all but blinks. A private dick. Possibly Illuminati. Should’ve known.

Veronica Mars smiled, suddenly taller and way more frightening. “That’s my name. That’s my agency. Neptune, not Brooklyn. Not anymore. Next time he’s ashore, let me know. Use the cell number.”

It had started raining while she’d been in and she had an umbrella at the ready. Detective Mars pulled up the collar of her coat and exited the bar with a decisive sort of stride, into the 9pm of white gray clouds marring cobalt skies. Handsome men and clever women, the lost time between.

“QUIT TALKING AND BRING ME JAGER,” Angry Turtle-Faced Ted yelled from the end of the bar effectively killing the vibe.

Nick tapped on the card and scratched his ear. He poured himself another shot, served a couple of joyful drunks some Cape Codders, and checked the schedule. It was only later, when he’d gone home and ramblingly told Jess the story of the Private Eye and The War Hero, that he’d taken that business card from his front flannel pocket, the one Jess had first pointed out to him as being an actual usable pocket and not a cruel designer's trick, and brought it up to his nose, wondering nonsensically what trouble actually smelled like. Marshmallows, as it turns out.

“Would you look for me, Jess? If you hadn't seen me in years, would you come after me?”

Jess patted his cheek and sighed, somehow answering in her sleep.

Nick went back to his room and after the usual toss and turn, finally succumbed. He dreamed of the ocean— spray and spume, approach and retreat.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!
> 
> Follow me on tumblr: @ghostcat3000


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